I'm just as tired as you, I can assure you," Stigand said as they walked out of the room.

CHAPTER - NINE

THE LION"S DEN

Normandy 8lh January

Bitter north winds were blowing that January morning as the messenger from England finally landed on the Norman coast. As he made his way inland, ice on a primitive cart-track road made the traveler weary when his horse occasionally slipped, and stumbled in the frozen amalgam beneath its feet. He made his exhausted way to find the lodgings of Robert Fitzerneis. His hands felt so numb from the cold that he no longer had sensation in his fingers. Upon arriving at his destination, he knocked hard on the solid oak door, eager that his journey was nearing its end.

"Messenger, Messenger!" he called. His voice had a tone of earnest anticipation that turned to relief as the door opened.

Before him stood a tall, slim woman of about twenty years with fair hair and large, brightly piercing blue eyes, which had a kindness about them. Her nose was small and she had full lips that complemented her outward features that reminded him of a girl he'd known as a youth, but her name flittered about his consciousness elusively. He noticed her astonishment at his unexpected visit and followed her as she beckoned him indoors.

"I am Hilda. Please, follow me," she said softly. "Come, you must warm yourself; you look ill," she said as she led him into the kitchen to an inviting fire.

He looked at the hearth with its flickering blue and yellow-orange flames that seemed to motion him closer to receive their somnolent warmth; he then smelled freshly baked bread, which made his saliva, flow profusely. On a spit, a hind leg was roasting. It smells like horse, he thought. He saw a kitchen maid barely out of childhood slowly turning the spit, and his salivation gained ground; it had been two days since his last nourishing meal then he swallowed his saliva, before regaining his composure.

Hilda shooed the maid, ushering her to leave the kitchen, and she watched in silence as the maid left. As the girl closed the kitchen door, Hilda began speaking in soft, caring tones to him. Yet, despite his bedraggled state, she noticed his dignity and familiar personal power exuding from him.

"My God, you look awful," she said, as she observed his hands, which were blue from cold. "I can see by the seal on your bag that you're no ordinary messenger. Please, sit down. Tell me, where have you come from and what is your business?" She motioned him to sit closer to the fire.

She placed his leather messenger's bag down upon the table, and noticed the wax seal still intact upon the clasp. Taking his hands in hers, she began gently rubbing them, warming and reinvigorating the flow of blood to his numbed fingers, and heard his teeth chattering, barely managing to speak. She saw him nod his thanks to her as she tried to calm his shivering.

"M-- My name is Henry. I have to find Duke William. I have brought the gravest news from England. I am told that Robert Fitzerneis dwells here, and that he will know where the duke is to be found." Henry said through chattering teeth.

"First, you must warm yourself. You look as if you will drop dead at any moment. Just rest here while I go fetch my husband." Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she looked him over before leaving the room.

As Hilda walked off to another part of the lodge to find her husband, Henry sat and enjoyed the warmth of the fire. He could feel the unpleasant tingling in his fingers and toes that he recognized as a sign of mild frostbite. His damp clothes, such as they were, began to steam from the nearness of the fire. He turned the spit and smelt the juices as they dripped into the fire, making crackling sounds as fire and fat met to fuel yet more flames. On the table was a large leather flagon. It still contained some wine, and he wondered if it would be right to take a sip. He thought better of this act of theft, and resisted the temptation.

His noticed the sweet smell of lavender that cast his thoughts back to the beginning of his journey, when a lady he had known as Mary had given the message he was to deliver. She was an undersized woman with flame red hair who received her orders from a monk who was a remnant of the days when confessions were given in the private chapel at the court of King Edward. The monk, known only as Charles the Hairy because of his total baldness, always had Edward's ear. He was the messenger of the king's private thoughts, which flew back and forth to the king's family of sycophants in Normandy. Charles was a wily man, with a network of runners to the coast, and kept Duke William informed as to the state of affairs in England.

Mary was just such a runner in the employ of Charles. She was a strong-willed woman whose husband had died in a fight with a peasant farmer many years previously. She gave Henry succor when he needed to have the company of a woman. He didn't have feelings for this woman other than an appreciation for her intelligence and her skills in bed.

On the morning of his departure to Normandy, she had passed over to him three gold, and ten silver coins, and the sealed bag containing the message he was to deliver to Duke William. Henry felt privileged that he'd been chosen to perform this momentous task.

He'd never had positive feelings for the Godwinson family, so this mission, for him, had become a sacred task, a crusade of good over evil. They run the place as if they were bloody kings. Now that thieving Harold really has stolen my master's crown. Boy, when Duke William gets hold of Earl Harold, he'll twist his head so that when he's walking north, he'll he looking south. He chuckled at the thought. My lord will have his coddlings for this transgression; that'll teach the usurping toad to steal my lord's crown.

Henry was pulled from his reverie by the sound of voices from another part of the lodge that became louder as the speakers approached the door. Soon a tall, muscular man opened the door and walked into the kitchen followed by his lady, Hilda. He had large, dark brown eyes, a Roman nose, and very short black hair. He wore a sheepskin jerkin and fleece boots that covered his linen hose that finished well above his knees. The man had an athletic appearance about him, and Henry took and educated guess that Robert was a trained warrior; a man who knew the hardships of fighting and the suffering that the elements could bring to any man when exposed to such extremes, just as he'd done in oft times past.

Robert approached him and looked for something on the back of Henry's right hand, something Hilda had seen. Robert clasped the man's wrist and looked carefully at the back of Henry's now normal, pink hand. The tattoo, amongst the wrinkles, depicted a goose. It was faded, but confirmation to Robert who now knew this man was no serf. He lifted his own youthful hand to the eyes of the messenger; the goose was clearly visible. A knowing look of admiration and respect, and a smile rested upon Robert's face, for he knew Henry, too, had been a warrior in his youth. Robert felt sympathy for Henry's bedraggled and distressed state.

There was a note of respect in his voice that Henry sensed and welcomed.

"My wife informs me that your name is Henry, and that you've brought important news. Tell me, Henry, what is it?" Robert asked as they sat taking the warmth of the fire. There was silence for a moment as Robert once more looked at the back of Henry's hand.

Then Henry spoke abruptly; then he realized that he'd taken Robert by surprise. "Sir, my message is for the Duke's ears only. What I can say is that there is a new king on the English throne. My orders are to convey my message to the duke, himself. I need to find him soon, and I am told you know where he is to be found."

Robert gave the man a hard look. He knew what this news would mean. Once William had this information, there would be a full-scale mobilization.

"Duke William's current location is at his hunting lodge, a little to the south of Quenilly. It's a good day's ride, and clearly, you look very ill; I should accompany you." Robert poured two goblets of wine and passed one to Henry, and watched as Henry sipped from it slowly.

Henry took a bite of bread and a slice of hot horsemeat, washing it down with another mouthful of wine. His appetite was now returning to normal, and he felt the fire warming the deepest parts of his being. He was tempted to ask for shelter for the night, but he had a mission to accomplish. The pleasures of a warm bed, he pondered, would have to wait.

"No, sir; as I have said, I've strict orders. I have been told that I must be totally alone throughout my journey."

"As you wish, but you must take this path." Robert said reaching out for a stick and using the implement, Robert drew a map in the smooth ash deposit on the hearth, giving detailed instructions of the signs that Henry should look for en route.

Henry looked on, taking in the information he needed to complete his task.

"There're robbers on these roads, and this path should keep you safe. Perhaps the night journey would keep you out of harm's way, but the coldness of this night might slow your progress. I can see you're a good and reliable servant, Henry, and I'm sure you will fulfill your mission," Robert said as he looked for Hilda; seeing her through the partially open door, he called to her.

"Hilda, bring Henry some food to take with him." He turned to look once more at Henry.

"I'll see that you have a fresh horse. You shall have warm clothes, a new sheepskin jerkin, and a good hat." Robert reached out and gently, touched Henry's arm. With a kind look in his eyes for a man dedicated to his task; he then lightly squeezed his arm, and noticed that Henry's response was one of embarrassment. Robert smiled and apologized.

"I thank you, sir. You're a good man. I will inform the duke of your kindness and generosity." Henry looked up to see that Hilda had brought fresh clothing, allowing Henry to change into comfortable attire for the first time in many days.

Robert called for a stable boy to ready a fresh horse, whilst Hilda prepared some food for Henry to carry on his journey. After fastening his boots, Henry rose from the chair, took the bag from the table and placed it over his shoulder.

"Now, I must be on my way." He said as he reached for Hilda and held her hands in his.

"Be safe. I know what you are. I noticed the tattoo on your hand. You are a good man."

Henry made no reply; he was feeling self-conscious about being recognized. His head bowed a little, and he just smiled; then he turned toward the door where Robert was waiting.

Robert shepherded the messenger through the door and outside to the waiting horse.

"When you've completed your task, Henry, you must return to spend time with us," Robert said, as he patted Henry's leg, his smile sincere.

Henry smiled back and whispered, "Thank you; I will," Henry said, then kicked the horse, and he started the last part of his journey. As he rode off into the night he looked over his shoulder and saw Robert and Hilda waving goodbye.

Henry rode hard for the first few minutes or so to warm the muscles of his fresh steed. His steed was a good horse, intelligent, too, and he sensed it, responding well to his reins. To conserve the beast's energy, Henry then slowed the animal to a canter as he made his way through the darkness to Quenilly, where Henry suspected that William would be quarrying his prey with hounds, the next morning.

The frost-laden air once more took a grievous bite at the man who fought back like a dragon slayer, falling; then picking himself up to fight back against the freezing foe.

After some time, Henry was still pleased with his mount; it seemed to just want to gallop, with no thought for its tired limbs. But he felt he ought to stop and rest the horse. As he came across a small clearing, he pulled up the horse and dismounted. The moon was full and bright, its rays almost as if they were for him only, illuminating the scene as if it were daylight. He walked the horse for a while to avoid its shivering, and tethered the snorting beast, its sweat steaming off like hot water from a boiling cauldron. He couldn't feel his fingers, but in the darkness, couldn't see the damage the frost had done to them. As best he could, he hitched the animal to a tree then took from his saddlebag a pig's bladder that held the wine he had been given. He took some food, ate, and drank his fill; then he remounted.

The cold night air became his enemy once more, the wind more vicious and menacing. He felt his bones as he had never felt them. His skin, despite his sheepskin covering, was clammy and cold; and the shivering became intense. Henry was beginning to feel inwardly cold and very tired, almost exhausted. He rode on utilizing what the moonlight afforded to him to light his way, taking the safest route towards the lodge where Walter Giffard, Duke William's right-hand man and childhood friend, would be taking care of the duke's business.

The morning light was just showing when at last Henry came in sight of the duke's lodge.

Alan was brushing out the coat of his first horse of the morning when he noticed something. He paused at the sight of the weary traveler, who was slumped across the neck of the horse that was walking towards him. Alan approached the man and took the bridle in his hands. Philippe ran towards the rider and helped him dismount. Henry could barely stand, so Philippe half carried him to a log a couple of paces away and seated the man down upon it. Alan passed over to Philippe the horse's woolen blanket, and led the horse away to stable the beast.

"Leave the horse for now. You'd better call Walter Giffard, and quickly, Alan. This man is near to death." He noticed the leather bag that carried a seal upon it. He looks like a messenger, too, Philippe thought as he rubbed Henry's ice-cold hands observing the man's acutely blackened fingers. He glanced at the rider's nose, and he saw that, too, was in a blacked state, and the flesh was frozen. Philippe knew, from experience, this meant the death of the man's extremities, and soon the messenger would die of exposure or gangrene.

Henry was breathless and exhausted after his long and arduous journey. Fighting to get the news out, he almost collapsed forward, trying to fight off the desire to sleep. Gulping in his breath, thick in the freezing cold morning air, Henry was weary, but trying his hardest to collect his thoughts.